


Brazen Exiles

by Crowsister



Category: Darksiders
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Human AU, Humansiders, M/M, Multi, Sci-Fi Elements, possible ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A girl with nothing to lose is thrown from one conflict into a whole new mess that she wasn't even expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Just Sayin', Curiosity Killed the Cat

Look, you all better listen. Because I’m only going to say this once. And  _no_ amount of begging will get me to start again.

The view from the bridge that day was rather nice. Nice golden sunsets are always a plus side to a day, but this one honestly seemed like a rope that was a bit too short to pull me out of the hole I dug myself into. The wind was fierce and flew in gusts around me as I stood on the 776 feet tall Golden Gate Bridge. Well, it was 776 feet if one went from water to top, rather than road to top. They never paid that much attention to that measurement – sort of like how nobody paid attention to me when I was hurting from neglect and an abusive father. They would have probably pay attention to both if I committed suicide, probably to write some sob story of a news article that no one was going to read because they didn’t care about me – some 17 year old girl named Eve Bain.

Sweet _Jesus_ , with how I saw the world before I got moved to Wildeden, it’s no wonder I wanted to die.

To be honest with y'all, I think the police and people that were below me were there more because they were scared to watch someone die than because they cared about me as an individual person. Sure they spurted some “You deserve to live” nonsense up at me through boom-phones, which only made me angrier at the world. Looking back, I don’t even know the reason why it made me angry. I was a directionless ball of angry, topped with dirty blonde hair and armed with what I liked to think were the sharpest pair of brown eyes the world had seen. But all that didn’t matter up there. I could just jump and everything wouldn’t matter anymore. Afterlife, Heaven, Hell -– to me, it didn’t matter.

But I never got my chance to die. At least, not die that day.

A police officer, some hotshot who didn’t follow his superiors’ orders at all, stripped a nearby jet-punk of his jetpack and started to fly up. I had closed my eyes and let the world around me blur with the speed I was falling at. Every little worry I had slipped through my mind and soul like little grains of sand, lost in the wind gusting around me. It was bliss, letting go of everything.

Then it all came back to me when that brave asshole caught me. He held me bridal style, like I was some damsel he’d just saved from a particularly nasty dragon. Too bad that those two were one and the same in this case.

“What the **fuck**?! You asshole, I was **done**. I was **finished**. WHY THE _FUCK_ DID YOU SAVE ME?” I snarled, squirming in his hold. He didn’t answer me though. Just held me and smiled to the cameras. He kept doing the show-dog routine until he handed me to the paramedics, who gave me a shock blanket. It was a nice red color, like that of a slow burning sunrise. I still have the damn thing with me, spread out on my bed. The paramedics drove me down to the hospital where they checked me over like I had bullet wounds in my stomach. All I did was jump from a 776 foot bridge support, not get shot in a war.

Then he came. He being Samuel Prince, owner of Black Stone Enterprises (a leading weapons company, in case you didn’t know. Prince is worth at least a few battleships’ weight in precious metals/chemicals). He made me sick to my stomach, the way he carried himself. He didn’t own this hospital -– maybe the 40,000 or so other ones across the country, but not this one. His hair was gelled back, looking a bit like demonic horns. But maybe that was me being negative again. His eyes, yellow like an empty beer bottle, held the same look that a little kid got when he found some trading card that could trump his friends’ pieces of paper. “I suppose it would be stupid to ask if you’re feeling alright, Ms. Bain,” he replied in this accent. Sounded old, maybe European. Maybe the disgusting lovechild of a British accent and an African one.

“Bull’s eye, sir,” I replied quietly, turning to look at him as he interrupted my glare to God via the ceiling. That’s when I got a good look at him to get his looks all described in my brain, put down to memory. Scumbag or not, Prince was a money-naire -– you know what I’m saying? Rich, loaded. Not someone you see in person, just in pictures.

He hummed, stroking that stupid little black goatee he had –- made him look like the Devil in those old, cheesy cartoons. His demon horn hair didn’t help any. “Perhaps a change of scenery _would_ help you…" He crossed the room, humming to himself. "The doctors are already making arrangements to send you to a little asylum down in Florida for you to be monitored and cared for. But we both know that’s not what you want.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” I replied. “We just met. I don’t think you even know what I want.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You see, I was once like you – angry at the world, no use for the anger. But I can give you that use…if you’ll let me. I’ll pay for you to get away from your father, to get away from all the little children at your school who don’t understand. All you have to do is one thing.”

“There’s always a catch.”

“It’s business, dear, that’s how business works. Now, you see, my four stepchildren...ran away some time ago. I recently found them in Wildeden, Iowa. If you could keep an eye on them for me and my wife, I would so appreciate it.”

God, his voice made his sickening aura worse. Guy wasn’t bad looking –- not attractive, but not ugly either. Just…something about him felt **wrong**. But…I didn’t see any other option. If I didn’t go through with this, I probably would’ve been driven nuts in an environment where I never got a choice for anything that truly mattered. Yes, I know that doesn't make sense. I just tried to kill myself, why the hell did I care?

I still can't answer that question.

I sighed, looking back at the ceiling, “I’ll do it. You arrange _everything_ –- a house, furniture, all the necessities I’ll need to fit in – and I’ll do it, Mr. Prince.”


	2. Into the Wild

And that’s how I got talked into moving an entire 4 or so states over to Wildeden, Iowa. As you know, it’s a little town in the middle of nowhere. Over half of Iowa is actually uninhabited. Wildeden is somewhere near the center of Iowa -– the latitude and shit escapes me.

Prince set me up with a one story house. It was on the outskirts of the little town, painted this nice wine red color. The color didn’t surprise me at all -- big money-naire like Prince drank wine like water. The house had the bedroom in the back, bathroom connected to the bedroom and the hallway, kitchen/dining area, etc. It was a normal house, nothing too fancy in it. One of his people probably picked it out using one of Prince’s favorite color palettes or something because everything was some form of red, white, or black.

When I walked into the dining room, finding a black backpack on the table. Brand new -- crisp and clean as one of Prince’s suits, I’d reckon. I sat down at the table, unzipping it in case there was anything out of the ordinary in it. I slowly started to pull items out of it, laying them on the table. A binder of papers (legal documents and the like), a new iPhone and some earbuds, and an envelope.

I opened the envelope, curious. Inside was a plastic credit card and a folded up papers. The first was a letter, which read:

_“Ms. Bain,_

_I was thrilled to hear you agree to our business arrangement. I trust that I have given you a suitable foundation to your new life in Wildeden. I have left you this credit card to buy what you need, though my advice is for you to get a job for the sake of a normal appearance. My stepchildren are rather...paranoid. Step carefully with them to gain their trust._

_They have no friends beyond themselves. They trust few people. Approach with caution. My advice is for you to throw this letter into the fire and to keep the attached dossiers as scanned documents only. They are thorough when they investigate -- if you give them any reason to be suspicious, you must have your tracks hidden before you make them._

_I hope you can do this._

_From, Samuel Prince”_

I flipped the credit card between my fingers and hummed. A smirk spread across my lips as I muttered to myself, “Shopping time.”

Finding the shopping center was like finding a yellow elephant in a blue room. The shopping center was obviously new, the architecture screamed as much. All the houses, the roads, the buildings - they were all comfortably old-fashioned.

Walking through town, I could feel the curious stares of the local people. I expected it - small town like this never got any new people (tourists or residents). I looked like some hovercycle gang reject with my leather jacket and jeans. Hair didn't help any, with all its fohawk-ness. I walked through, feeling like I was a tank rolling through a Middle Eastern village with the stares I was getting. I was a scary-looking thing and the people saw me as a foreign threat, analyzing me and trying to pick me apart.

I walked into the shopping center and had a guy thrown at me. In hindsight, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

The guy was fourteen. He was growling like a dog that just got hosed down, his blonde-white hair sticking up like he was raising his hackles. He was clad in a grey and red sweatshirt with jeans. His knuckles were bleeding through the boxing tape he had wrapped around them.

Three larger guys were running at us. I picked the blonde guy up over my shoulder, surveying the center. Fighting against the door would be a dumbass idea. Glass could break and cause gruesome injuries, but being close by the door would leave us open to cops. So we needed to pick up our asses and move - little fireball wasn’t going to and the big guys would like the advantage of location.

"Put me down! I don't need your help!" protested my cargo, squirming. "This is my fight and I'm not running away!"

I barked, "Not running away, big guy. Just repositioning." I saw the opening I needed - the center had a main plaza. To the side, there was a perfect spot for a two-on-three fist fight. I needed this fight. I sped ahead, placing him down roughly. He stumbled, but stood back up. He glared at me with fiery blue eyes. I only smirked, "I'm new in town. I need a fight. Not doing you a favor, just some good old teenage aggression."

"Whatever. Make enemies, I don't care. Just don't get in my way," the short, blonde fireball replied, rolling his eyes. The pursuers caught up with us and leapt at us. I dodged mine, landing a right hook on his jaw. Didn't slow him down enough, so I planted a left hook in his gut and kicked his knee. Oh those years of street fighting were paying off now.

He landed a blow on my thigh as he fell over, causing me a prickle of pain. Shook it off like a fly and threw a right hook to his spine, right between the shoulder. My hook accelerated his fall to gravity, smacking him down on the cream tile. He groaned, his eyes closing. I kept my foot on his back to keep him down, looking over to the little fireball.

The nickname is... _so_ appropriate for him. He had rage and passion in his movements, jabbing and crossing like a professional kickboxer. I almost winced in sympathy for the guy Fireball was fighting -- the crack of knuckles sounding through the air made it sound like Fireball was smacking a sword to a piece of metal. Guy #1 falls. Fireball - 1, Guys - 0. One guy left standing and he looks like he’s going to pee his pants. Fireball growled and the guy bolted, giving his team a total of -1 points. I clapped, smirking. I took my foot off my fallen opponent and walked over to Fireball.

“Eve.”

“War.”

“Can I safely assume that I’m not going to get an explanation for why they were trying to pummel you into the ground?” I asked, watching his face. War's face was pretty much a mask of anger and frustration, hard lines set into a tan marble face. Didn’t have time to look then, but during my stay in Wildeden, I got to see War's little scars across his face -- it was like he got in a fight with Despereaux the mouse and lost. That thought never fails to bring a smile to my face.

He grunted in reply, studying me with those light blue eyes. Almost pure white they were, but if the light hits them right they’re blue. I met his gaze evenly, replying, “Pictures last longer, bub.”

“Why did you step in?” he asked finally, the hard lines on his face just getting solidified as he frowned at me. “You don’t know me and you haven’t been here long enough to want favors. Talk.”

“Truth? I like to think of myself as a girl of honor. Shit, that sounds like I’m always in weddings, which for the record is false. I just thought that looked unfair, three guys against one. I didn’t know that you were a little fireball -- you sort of look like a really angry skater, could’ve been skin and bones from all I can see,” I replied. “I like to stick up for those who can’t do it for themselves.”

That seemed to please him enough to take those piercing eyes off me. He started to walk away. “Then know that I can fight my own battles, Eve.” I let him go. He wasn’t the friendliest critter and he didn’t want to be around anymore. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

The rest of my trip to the shopping center was fast, mostly because I wanted to get home before the security guards checked the footage. Just grabbed food, coffee, tea, and clothes -- then scurried home like the raccoon I am. That was Sunday. Next morning was Monday and I was expected at the local high school since I actually did want a future, despite all evidence to the contrary. This was a second chance and I wasn’t going to mess up. Dad wasn't here to drag me down. Maybe I could try this “normal” gig this round...or maybe I could fail at normal and end up like I am now.


	3. Fuck, I’m out of here if this becomes a musical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get weird.

Eden Minerva High School has the same uncomfortable air as you’d expect from other high schools. It comes from the rampant sexual tension of teenagers and all the drama that comes with forcing stuff like that. But Eden’s was tenser, almost electrified. I immediately noticed everything was bizarre the moment I stepped in.

The kids were the first giveaway. There were two main groups at this school and everybody knew it. I had unknowingly walked onto the set of High School Musical: Everything Has Been Fucked Up.

There were the little goody two-shoes -- who wore white, gold, and blue, who had blond-white hair, who walked as if they had redwood trees stuck right between their ass cheeks. Their stares were cold and calculating. They probably already pinned me as a member of the other group, which insulted me a bit. I don’t like labels. Especially when they’re pinned on me.

And then there was the other group -- the “misunderstood” ones. They sort of appealed to me at first, but I didn’t like how they looked at me. Hungrily, almost. Creepy. So creepy. They wore red, bronze, and black. They carried themselves like they owned the place, which reminded me of Prince.

There was a clear divide between the two groups. They both stuck to a side and they weren’t moving from it. Thankfully, the route to the office appeared to be neutral ground. I walked along it, keeping my outward appearance looking indifferent. But inside, I couldn’t help but be unnerved. I picked up my schedule from the office aide (who was a goody. Ugh, I feel like such a hypocrite with all these labels, but that’s how it was at Eden. Two main labels trying to push the other out). I looked over the schedule.

It read:

 _“Period 0: Unscheduled_   
_Period 1: AP English Language_   
_Period 2: ACC Biology_   
_Period 3: Lunch_   
_Period 4: Graphic Design & Printmaking 3-4_   
_Period 5: AP World History_   
_Period 6: Biblical Literature_   
_Period 7: Archery”_

I raised my eyebrows at the class choices. I liked the classes, but it creeped me the hell out.

No one had asked me what classes I wanted. I had assumed that I’d be forced to go through more and more introductory bullshit, learning each class and its requirements before finally choosing my classes with the "help" of a councilor. That was the second sign that this school had something distinctly...different about it. Archery was a third sign.

Archery is pretty rare these days. Can't really blame the world for forgetting such a beautiful sport, what with guns being a bit more effective. But archery is something quieter - just a snap of the bow string and the arrow is launched.

Archery's also a form of attack. It's long range attack -- I don’t need to go into too much detail to explain that. With tensions this thick, why would any sane adult keep a program like this in place? That's like asking for conflict.

I made my way to the library since my 0 period was unscheduled. It was in the center of the school in a wooden building. I put my hand on the glass door and pushed, letting myself in. The library's collection was huge -- felt like I was in some Doctor Who shit and everything was bigger on the inside than the outside. I looked around the shelves, reading book titles as I walked. I did my best to make my steps quiet, but my boots made that hard. Thick rubber soles do that to a girl.

I felt the spine of an old looking book, pulling it out. The title had been rubbed off the spine, but I could still see it on the front of the book. “The Holy Bible, 1611 Edition”.

The Bible’s always fascinated the hell out of me. It was the foundation for several cultures, several societies. People used it to justify their bad actions and blame their good actions on it. How did such a book command such power over around a quarter of the people on Earth?

I opened to a random page and sat down. Wasn’t like I had anything better to do anyways, right?

There was two lines that stick in my memory to this day. They were written in some old version of Times New Roman font, going,

_“And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see._

_And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.”_

“You’re sure that he hasn’t been sulking around in here, Azzy?”

“I would have seen War enter, Horseman. And please don’t call me that, it makes me sound like a teenager.”

“Old man, don’t be proud of your age.”

“I’ve lived this long. Why shouldn’t I be proud?”

“Because you’re not on the front with the rest of your people.”

Truth? First thought in my head was, _“What the fuck, we’re not in a war, what are they talking about?”_ Curious, I got up and followed the two voices. I hid behind a bookshelf, looking at the two.

One was a middle aged man, looked around the same age as my dad (who was 52 last time I saw him. Though, he’s probably died of liver failure by now). He had the white hair of the angels and he kept it long and down his back like he was that creepy guy in the suit from Yu Gi Oh. He wore glasses and had them slid down on his nose bridge in a classic librarian stand by. I call that look, “Tired Librarian who has had it up to here with these Disrespectful Teenagers”.

Said disrespectful teenager I could only see from the back. He was leaner than most guys I had seen on campus. I couldn’t tell which group he belonged to -- too relaxed and proud to be an goodie and being a trouble child didn’t seem to fit him, even if he did sort of look the part. His skin was almost the same tan as War’s, but it was a bit lighter. Black spiky hair, held up by gell to make him always look like he’d just gone through a wind tunnel almost unscathed. He wore a grey shirt with a purple symbol on the side along with black jeans. It matched War’s. War had the same symbol on his hoodie, on the left shoulder, in black.

“I help them in other ways,” the Tired Librarian replied curtly, as if he had this argument with someone else recently.

“Heh. Sure, Azzy. Say what you want. But we all know how the cookies are gonna **crumble**...now tell me. Where’s War?” the Horseman replied, smirking as he slid his sunglasses down his face like he was some kind of hotshot.

“Probably licking his wounds from yesterday,” I cut in, taking the Bible with me like I was going to check it out. Might as well. The Horseman looked at me like I was a cat that just walked into a dogfight -- some crazy thing that just walked into a conflict that was going to get it killed. Tired Librarian looked concerned.

He asked, “Did something occur this Sunday? Is War alright?”

“He got in a fight with these three big guys. Least twice his size. Lucky they threw him into me when they tossed him at the glass door of the shopping center. Glass would’ve been real nasty to deal with,” I replied. “I make a much better landing surface. I cut in, which he did not care for at all -”

“He’s like that,” the Horseman replied. “My little brother has always leapt off cliffs before using that thing between his ears.”

“I don’t know how things are run in this town, but I wasn’t gonna let him face them on his own. His knuckles were already bleeding bad, like he’d been punching a wall. ‘Sides, I needed some stress relief. Figured doing some noble fighting for once would be better than letting it stew,” I replied. “I took down a guy, War took down a guy. The third ran. Probably needed to change his pants. Your brother’s a real fireball. Never seen anything like it.”

“I could give you tickets to my gun show. Name’s Strife,” Strife replied, smirking at me.

I smirked back and replied, “I would, but it doesn’t look like there’s much to see. My name is Eve Bain. If it wasn’t obvious, I’m new here.”

“Ah. So you are the new student Principal Charlyn said to keep an eye out for. I am Azrael Valley. Please do not call me Mr. Valley. I prefer to keep on first name basis with students here, to try to get to know them better,” Azrael replied.

“Yeah, because they get picked off all the time. Little cans on a fence, getting shot down,” Strife added. “Though, if you really did help War out, you’ll last longer than others.”

“What do you mean? Is there something going on here?” I asked, curious.

“You’ll see,” Azrael cut Strife off, giving him a scolding look. “Just be sure to keep safe. The tension between students here has been known to...escalate. You’ll be fine.”

“...alright. Hey, do you know where room 444 is?” I asked. “I’ve got AP English Literature there for my first period.”

“That is my class. You’re welcome to walk with me there when zero period ends,” he replied, smiling softly my way.

“Sounds good to me, teach,” I replied.

Strife muttered, “Teacher’s pet.” I socked him in the shoulder, scowling as he didn’t even flinch. He was made of tougher stuff than I thought he was. Or he had the self control not to show pain. Both hinted at a backstory like my own.

Before I could say anything, the bell rang. Damn, time flew fast. Azrael stood from his chair and got out from behind his desk. He was tall and his white coat fluttered behind him like a bunch of feathers tied together. I left the Bible on the counter, leaving it behind as I followed him out the library. I turned back and gave Strife a little two finger wave before slipping out the library doors.

Walking with Azrael was awkward, to say the least. Something about him made me extremely uncomfortable. It was like he wasn’t what he said he was or seemed to be. I just choked the feeling back, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets because Iowa’s a lot colder than California. California winter was like Iowa’s spring. So Iowa’s fall was a bit of a change for me, but I liked the cold better than the heat. Warmer clothes meant more to hide behind.

Once we got to the class, I picked the seat all the way to the left up front. Right by the window, where I could stare out in case of boredom. Which eventually ended up happening due to the classic introductory class.

_Hello, this is an Advanced Placement English class and as such I expect, bluh bluh bluh, I am Azrael Valley, but call me Azrael, bluh bluh bluh, these are the rules to my classroom, bluh bluh bluh._

So I looked out the window and I saw something interesting. Eight teenagers, divided into lines of four, having a standoff outside. The cliques were easy to distinguish -- goodies on the left, baddies on the right. First, the two groups exploded into fist fighting, sloppily trying to put each other down. Then, one of the bad boys pulled out something weird...looked like a knife, but it glowed red. He stabbed the knife into the goodie he was fighting, but then another goodie pulled out a small gun and shot glowing blue... _things_! They were most definitely _things_ being shot, but by all that’s sacred to teenagers, they sure as hell weren’t _bullets_.

I raised my hand. When Azrael called on me, I asked if I could go to the bathroom. He nodded and said yes. I walked out the classroom. I bolted down the stairs, finding my way outside with little difficulty. I ran over to the kid on the ground, the first goodie that was stabbed, seeing if he was still alive. I picked him up, trying to drag him away from the scene and hopefully to the nurse’s office. He muttered, “No...put me down...I die with my brethren.”

“Just what the fuck is going on here?” I muttered. “You sound brainwashed, like a robot or a zombie almost.”

“No...my brethren and I fight a just battle against those impure,” he paused to cough out blood. I sighed, ripping the left sleeve off of my shirt and pressing it to his knife wound. “You...are still pure. Take my bow.”

“Buddy, I don’t see any ribbons on you. Didn’t know you were the type,” I replied, trying to keep the mood light. “C’mon. Stop talking like you’re going to die.”

“I am...there is no cure for the weapons of Hell. Death is the only way I can escape their burns...my bow is in my jacket pocket, left side...fight for me, fight for peace...fight for the Balance,” he rasped. I looked up at his face for the first time, seeing the pleading look in his blue eyes and on his baby face. Fuck, he was just a kid, some idiot freshman who fell to peer pressure.

I whispered, “I will. Just...don’t die on me, kiddo. We can fight together, just stay with me.” I got out my phone with my free hand, dialling in 911. All I got in return was static, which caused me to panic a bit. What place did not have 911? What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

That’s when the _big_ guy, as you call him, came.

Tall and lean, dressed in all black. Wore a skull-like mask, white as bone. He carried two weapons on him, both glowing with this pale green and dark purple aura. They were too long to be knives, too long to be daggers, and too short to be proper swords. Hilt was all weird too -- like they were scythes that he just cut off most of the staff of. They opened with a click, revealing that was exactly what they were. He charged into the fray, separating the two sides again.

I scrambled, holding my ripped sleeve to the kid’s wound as I looked for the bow he kept wanting me to take. A look up at his face made my heart sink -- the kid looked dead. I checked for a pulse and got nothing in return. I stifled back a sniffle and closed his blue eyes, making him look like he was asleep. I whispered, "Get some rest, kiddo."

I could hear the conflict continue behind me. That big guy was holding his own, that was for sure. I opened the kid's jacket, going right for the pocket he had described. I pulled out a slim white rod, slightly curved like the handle of a bow and the size of a pen. My thumb clicked against a groove and the rod extended into a bow. Glistening white metal with a blue glowing string of energy. I touched it and an arrow of blue energy formed between my fingers. I let go and it dissipated back into the string. The blue was slowly turning purple, which was pretty fucking weird.

I looked back at the fight. Big guy didn't need my help -- he was an artist out there, flowing from hit to hit like liquid mercury. I slid my thumb against the groove again and the bow went back to being a rod.

I turned and ran back to class. This was all too fucking weird.


	4. Can't Go Back

I was pretty much distracted all day after that event. Who the hell gave these kids advanced weapon technology and thought it was a good idea? Who the hell even came up with this stuff? Why the hell am I still going through these classes and not getting the fuck out of here?

Well, I can answer that last one.

I had a job to do now. Unlike before, I had a purpose: keep an eye on Prince’s step-kids. So far, according to the dossiers that I had scanned onto my phone, I had met two.

Wayne and Seth. Well, they introduced themselves as War and Strife, but they matched the photos in the dossiers. And if their behavior spoke anything, it’s that they’d been abused in the past. Like me. So this put me at a dilemma. See, in all good conscience, if it had been Prince who had abused them, I couldn’t help out Prince anymore because that’d be like my dad sending someone to spy on me. And I’d be pissed at the spy. Like “ready to kill” pissed.

So the plan changed a bit. I needed more information before continuing on this path. I could just be painting my own history on them based upon a few details and assumptions.

But how the fuck was I going to get the information I needed? Asking War would be like asking a wall -- unproductive and idiotic. The guy's a lock-box and I sure as hell couldn't pick a lock like that. Strife might lead up to some answers though...and I did sort of want to see him again. For reasons. Besides, it was a small town, so the chances of running into him or any of his siblings was pretty damn high.

Like later that day, during my 6th period (it’s Archery, just to remind you), I got a call slip. The teacher (another tall blonde woman, gave her name as Mrs. Michaels) had been giving a rather boring lecture on archery safety that had been filled with common sense. Then, there was a knock on the door, which was somewhere behind me. We all spun around, one kid getting up to open the door. In came a girl, around a year younger than me, walked right into the classroom with the gait of a panther.

She was a Horseman, or Horsewoman -- had the symbol on her right pant leg and the same tan skin. Her hair was black with purple and gold highlights, flowing back and then hitting her back again with every step she took towards Ms. Michaels. She wore a maroon shirt and black pants.

She handed the slip to Ms. Michaels with all the grace of a practiced dignitary. She stood, turning around to face us as she waited. She studied me, looking for something. She seemed a bit surprised that I met her stare evenly.

"Ms. Bain, please go with Ms. Prince to the principal's office," Mrs. Michaels replied dryly. Spoke like she was sending me to my _death_ or something. I shrugged off her tone and stood up, grabbing my stuff. The Horsewoman seemed a bit surprised that I came up so obediently.

I knew then and I know now when to pick fights. Remember that.

So, like I was saying, I got up and followed her out of the room. Dead silence as we walked through the halls, you know besides the occasional squeaks of my boots on the tile from when I didn’t lift my feet up all the way. So, me being the charmful chatty person that I am, I decided to break the ice in a perfectly friendly manner.

“Do you always have the stick up your ass or is it just there when you’re being Miss Errand Girl for the principal?”

She slid me a dry look, asking stiffly, “Why do you ask?”

“Back in the classroom, you walked in like you owned the place. Now you’re doing the little soldier trot. Dear _God_ , I think your knees right now could juggle a ball you’re lifting them up so high,” I joked a bit, smirking a bit. “Relax. If anything, the little soldier girl impersonation is just making me laugh rather than respect you.”

“I’m not looking for your respect. I don’t need it when I can kick your ass down the block,” she smirked back. She lost the soldier trot, finally going back to the panther gait. Much better.

“There we go, that’s how we socialize correctly. Not like I have much experience,” I replied, shrugging as I walked with her. “You and your siblings don’t talk to others much, do you?”

“It’s for the best. Around here, it’s hard to stay yourself. We kept to ourselves to avoid getting more caught up in this big gang war than we want to be,” she replied.

I frowned, tilting my head curiously, “You know, everyone’s mentioned tensions and junk. Strife said it was weird that I survived this long. Azrael, my English teacher, shut him up before he could say anything.”

“Most of the town is caught up in this sort of gang war. Think Outsiders,” she replied. “They even have names for the sides. Angels and Demons.”

“How do you stay off sides? I’m not much of a team player. Think of me as a broke female Tony Stark without the ass chasing,” I said a bit jokingly. "Okay, maybe a little ass chasing."

“You’re either on one of three sides. Angel, Demon, or...something between,” she replied cryptically as we reached the door with the words “Principal’s Office” painted onto the glass window of the door. Her hand flicked out like a switchblade, grasping the door with a mix of gentleness and strength. She twisted it open with practiced grace, flicking her free hand in a motion that said, “Move it, storytime’s over.”

Bit my tongue, walked in. Sat down in the offered chair. Old man sat at the principal’s desk, looking at me over a pair of tan rimmed glasses. No rim on the top. He regarded me with a sense of superiority, like I was just a pawn in his game. “So you are our new student,” he drawled, his voice containing a Texan accent’s slowness, but a German one’s sharp pronunciation, “Franklyn, get her some water. She looks tense.”

“I’m always this tense,” I replied before the Horsewoman could move. “Fine. I am fine.” I cursed the shakiness in my voice.

“You are watching me like I am pointing a gun at you,” he replied. “Relax. I am not one of the adults who have been taking part of the ridiculous conflict that plagues our town. I am Principal Charlyn. Do you wonder why I called you here?”

“I doubt it’s because I have a sterling record attached to my name,” I replied sarcastically, crossing my arms.

Principal Charlyn snorted at me, pushing up his glasses with his wrinkled middle finger while curling his pointer and thumb together and holding the rest straight. He replied, “Ms. Bain, I assure you, we have students here with worse records than you. Your history of violence and theft only gives you a leg up in survival, not an obstacle in moving up in life.”

“So what am I here for?” I asked.

“There is to be a school function tonight at our local sports coliseum, the Gilded Crucible. It is not optional. Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir. But I’m not dressing up for this. _No_ dresses.”

“There will be clothes provided there. No, it is not a formal function. Simply an introductory one. We hold one for each new student that comes to our school.”

“Huh. Weird. Where’s this Crucible?”

“It is in the center of town. If you look behind me, you will be able to see it through the window.”

I leaned in the chair to the right, looking beyond Principal Charlyn. I could see a dull golden metal glowing in the sun over the roofs of the various buildings. I nodded, “I see it.”

“Good. Be there at 7 PM tonight. There are no acceptable excuses for not attending. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

* * *

The Gilded Crucible was built ten years before either the Horsemen or I got to Wildeden. It was a rectangular stadium that merged Roman architecture and modern materials. Columns of air-brushed gold metal, all supporting at least four rows of 100 seats on each level. It had been designed by some art student from Eden High School and submitted to a contest. The owners of the Crucible were a Kione “Wicked K” Wilkinson and a Crevon Chancellor. Both did the announcing at each event held at the Gilded Crucible, which resulted in some hysterical bicker between the two as they were different people.

I got there, still wearing the clothes I had worn to school that day. I had my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, my left hand curled around the bow that kid had given me.

Okay, I’ll admit it -- I was jumpy, I was nervous, I was scared as a rabbit going into a wolves’ den. Everything was _too_ quiet. Way too quiet. I’m a city girl at heart -- bustling cars, wild police sirens, drunken singing on the corner, and sounds of that sort had been my lullaby since I was born. Silence meant something was prowling, that something or someone wasn’t busy being an idiot and was actually concentrating on doing something. And with my luck, that something usually tended to be bad.

I quickened my pace, seeing War standing at a gate. He spotted me and pointed me towards a smaller gate. I nodded my thanks, jogging over to the gate. I entered the gate, following the hallway to a small room. The room was grey and bare, only containing a table and a door.

On the table was a set of body armor and a gas mask (classic kind, just a small bubble that went over the mouth and nose with the rebreathers built on the sides. Goggles were attached to the top). The armor was clothe, flexible. Colored grey. I remembered Principal Charlyn saying something about clothing being provided here. I shut the door behind me with my foot, changing into the body armor. I slid on the gask mask, looking through the goggles’ clear plastic. I grabbed my bow, keeping it in my hand as I opened the door.

The opening notes of "Centuries" by Fall Out Boy greeted me from inside the stadium as I stepped into it, my boots smashing the grass blades of the field. In front of me were hundreds of eyes staring me down. Angels on the right, demons on the left.

Over the music, the speakers blared with the words, “Welcome folks to this year’s Distribution Ceremony! I’m Wicked K and my partner and I will be announcing this bloody good event! I do believe that it is time to rumble!”


	5. Distribution, Do I Look Like Groceries or Somthing?

"New girl is still standing there, you would've thought that she'd choose by now, don't you think so, Chancellor?"

"I quite understand her hesitation. This is a rather important decision, one that will affect her life here in our _lovely_ Wildeden."

"Eh, I suppose so. Why don't we ask her?"

"AN EXPLANATION WOULD BE **FUCKING** MARVELOUS, YOU OUTRAGEOUSLY FAKE ENGLISHMEN!" I yelled up at the loud speakers, taking out my bow and extending it. I moved as the mob of people surrounded me, forcing me into the center of the arena. I pulled my bow back, forming an arrow as I spun around to keep my eyes on every little threat around me. The kids seemed brainwashed, standing there with empty eyes. They didn't have gas masks like I did -- no rebreathers to filter out the air.

"Such _manners_! We shouldn't tell her a thing, K," Chancellor's voice scolded through the loudspeakers.

"As always, my friend, I disagree. This, child, is the Distribution ceremony. You are going to be indicted into one the sides you see before you."

"I only see two. Angels and demons."

"Ooh, smart girl, you talked to people before coming in! The third side is a rare opportunity. It's more likely that you'll die from the angels and demons tearing you apart before the third side takes you. Chancellor, do you remember that one girl, the feisty redhead with the killer pencils?"

"I do believe her name was Alison. Remember Sara?"

"Oh dear lord, her skin is currently hanging on some demon's wall. Poor thing."

I growled, "I choose the third."

"What was that? We can't hear you, dear," Wicked K asked. I could've backed down, could've took it easy by choosing a side.

But I didn't. An easy life isn't **worth** living.

"I CHOOSE THE THIRD," I screamed, shooting my arrow. I shot a big burly demon right in the eye, causing him to screech. I ran right at him, climbing up him and standing up on his shoulders. I used his massive height as a vantage point, balancing on top of him as he ran around and tried to buck me off. I shot three more before the mob seemed to wake up from its trance. They all moved, charging at me with the most primal and pissed off faces I've ever seen. I dodged, using the ends of my bow as knives. Stabbed two obstacles, pulled out and moved through the path I made. I made a pile of bodies, panting as I held my position.

This worked for a while. But more and more seemed to flood in, all roaring at me. Had hands on my neck, fingers curling into the soft flesh of my lymph nodes. Looked like I was finally getting the death I want _ed_ and didn't get back in San Francisco.

I heard a bullet. Loud **crack** , someone shot the demon strangling me. I kicked the body off of me, looking around. I spotted them.

There was four new players. Three were carving a path, one was giving support from the rear with two pistols. Each were dressed in colors of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Red had the biggest sword I had ever seen. It was as long as he was tall. Glowed red-orange, like a cool flame. Stained with the blood of the kids he was cutting down, the blade seemed to dance with him. Slash, hack, slash, _hackity_ , hack, hack, slash.

White was the one with pistols. He seemed to be cutting down kids with those pistols, shooting kids right between the eyes or taking out their legs. I could hear him snickering over the fight as I got up, trying to cut my own path to the four. It was an impulse -- I wasn't thinking anymore, I was just scrambling like mad for anything that could save my ass.

Black had whips. She was more of a dancer than Red, twirling. But it wasn't twirling for show -- there was meaning, there was purpose, there was a reason with every strike of the whip. The whips were bladed, gold glowing as the whips absolutely melted through people.

When I reached them, I fell to my knees out of exhaustion in front of the forth one. I looked up and there was Bone Face. From when the angel kid died. The guy that moved like liquid mercury, with short scythes that glowed pale green and bright purple.

I smiled up at him and said the cleverest thing I could've at the time, considering the amount of adrenaline in my system. Add that with exhaustion and try to be witty. I dare you.

"You always have the best timing, Boner Man," I grinned before falling on my face. The world just went black as I closed my eyes. Fuck, the grass poked me in the eye. That stung like a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit short, but I feel like the length of this chapter adds to the feeling of action.


	6. Wakeup Call for Princess Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Eve Wakes the Hell Up

_Beep. Beeeep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep._

I groaned, "Fucking alarm, leave me alone I don't have school _today_."

"Sunshine, that's not your alarm. That's your heartbeat."

"Mmmm, shu'up," I groaned, slowly opening my eyes. I shut them. Light was too bright. Stung like a hornet sting.

"Mmmm, don't think I will. Wake up all the way or I'll roll you off the bed."

"Don't give a **fuck** about what you do, asshole," I growled softly.

"You should give fucks a chance, you might like 'em," Asshole replied.

I let out a chuckle, smiling against the pillow. I slowly opened my eyes, looking around as I sat up. The guy in white from earlier was sitting in a chair besides me, his pistols on the side of my bed. Could take him in now - his armor was white and gunmetal grey. His helmet was gunmetal grey - intimidating in its sharp (sort of insect-like) shape and color. The eyes of the mask were yellow - could see a crosshairs in each one if you looked close enough.

" _Who_ the hell are you? And _where_ the hell am I?" I asked, tilting my head and popping the joints in my neck.

"You're in a classified location. You, _lucky lucky_ you Miss Sunshine, have been chosen to try to become a Horseman," he answered.

"...that's the third option. The neutral party that your sister, _Strife_ , told me about," I replied. "Honestly, invest in a voice adjuster or whatever."

"Don't need one," he replied, slowly taking the helmet off. "Everyone knows we're the Horsemen around here. Don't need any secret identities when everything is set out clear in black, white, and grey."

"So what's this Horseman thing all about?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Strife answered, "Peacekeeping. Keeping the Balance between the Angels and Demons."

"Why not just let one side win?" I asked.

"Because they're both radical sides. The angels would spread everywhere with totalitarian shit. The demons would spread anarchy everywhere. Balance is needed for anyone to live happily," Strife replied. "I'll give Death one thing - he's way better at explaining this shit than me."

"I'll take your word for it," I replied. "Sort of surprised anyone still lives here with the way everyone kills each other so much. There were more dead bodies in that stadium than a military graveyard."

“The Charred Council just says that the White and Black Cities, the neighboring towns, supply more. Whatever that means, I don’t question it,” Strife replied. “Nobody can leave the town. The radicals of both sides kill those who try to.”

“Eh. Guess it’s better that we don’t question much, right? We’re just stooges after all -- chess analogies all around. We’re the pawns, the Council’s the players, blah blah blah,” I responded. “I’ve seen and heard enough of movies and books to know that asking questions in a gig like this gets you in trouble.”

“I see why the Council decided to recruit you. You’re smart,” a new voice replied. “But don’t let that get to your head.”

“And the last brother enters the stage,” I announced. “Boner Man, I take it?”

“My name _is_ Death. I take it that you are Eve Bain?” he asked as Strife snickered about my nickname for his older brother.

Death's a tall guy. If you imagine most of the depictions of the Grim Reaper in a human form, you’ve basically got a photographical piece of evidence that Death (Death the person) exists. Tall, appeared to be skin and bones but you know that he’s got muscle on him from the way he moves, the absolute sort of power that just ebbs off of him. He had long hair, came sort of to his shoulders. Most guys would make that haircut look like a ratty ass i-tried-to-be-a-mullet-but-i-am-too-punk-to-do-so hairdo, but Death actually pulled it off as a sort of modern vampire look. And no, not teen romance vampire, but classic stuff.

“I am Eve Bain, but I guess I’m gonna have to come up with a codename for myself, now aren’t I?”

“You most certainly are going to need one. You are one of us, not an exception to the rules. You are new, but you are not special,” Death replied. “I hope that removes any and all ego issues you may or may not have. Strife, get her up and into the armory. We need her suited up for combat simulations.”

“Yes _brother_ ,” Strife drawled, standing up. He waited for Death to leave before holstering his guns into the sort of pockets on the outsides of his thighs. The suit had perfectly molded holsters for them. Huh. Neat. Definitely did not look anywhere else while watching him holster his guns. Nope. “Shall we go, _princess_?”

“You call me that one more time and I swear to punch your pretty face,” I growled, getting up.

Strife snorted at me and started walking out of the room. I followed him. While Death and Fury had the walking gaits of predatory cats, Strife’s walk reminded me of a cowboy. The kind who liked to play chicken and shoot beer bottles off fences and “accidentally” shoot someone’s foot. Actually, sort of reminded me of pirate captains from the movies. He lead me through the hallways. I made sure to memorize the route - I didn’t want to have a babysitter just to get around the place. I do well with patronizing.

Strife seemed to get that without ever really stepping on my landmine temper. He just walked the walk, like a real cowboy.

“This is the armory. It’s like Hot Topic, only it’s not idolized by scene kids and it has gear that can literally kick ass,” he explained. "Instead of just having people say it can kick ass."

"Works for me," I replied, taking a look around. "So I can choose anything that isn't in one of those four color coordinated sections? Jesus fucking **Christ** , you guys are almost as bad as the Power Rangers."

"Council's idea, not ours," he replied. "Hurry up and do your grocery shopping, princess."

"I swear to God, Strife," I growled. "We don't go there."

"Been there, done that, didn't even get a shitty t-shirt," Strife replied, smirking. I threw a punch at him and he caught it in his rough calloused hand. "Careful sunshine, you _might_ actually hurt someone."

"That was the intent," I growled. "Light bruising and an injured ego sounds like the perfect prescription for you. But it looks like the prescription missed its delivery time, so I'm going to have to just go grocery shopping instead of giving the poor baby his medicine."

He made a teasing kissie face at me. I didn't dignify that with a response. Just walked away, shoulders back, repeating mentally to myself, "Murder murder murder murder _murder_ , **_murder_**."

I looked at the walls. Five color coded sections. White, red, black, pale grey, and purple. Each was as wide as 3 feet and 9 feet tall. I looked to the purple colored section and stepped forward. I examined every weapon on the racks, each carefully tucked away like carpentry tools. There were weapons there I didn't know the name to -- blades, battering police pole-things with handles, axes, nunchucks, handles that were attached to chains that ended in either balls of spikes or blades, any sort of weapon you can think of was up there. Yes, there was probably weaponized _shit_. I didn’t look deep enough because something caught my eye.

My hand touched a bow. It was a higher tech model of the one the angel kid gave to me. Black metal handle, sleek as a sports car. I picked it up, sliding the switch to have the bow extend. It extended, ending in proper dagger points rather than the sharp points of the angel kid's bow that I had been using before. Would've made fighting in that arena a lot easier if I had this baby. "I'm going with this one," I replied, contracting the bow back into its handle.

"Grab a secondary, princess. Something for close range," Strife replied. "Or in case the bow breaks."

"Will do, _baby_ ," I replied, rolling my eyes as I looked back to the weapons rack. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned.”

“Concerned for your well-being, no. Concerned about my job being easier and the existence of more me time? Yes."

“That makes much more sense,” I replied, picking up some brass knuckles with my free hand. I put the bow in my pocket, slipping the brass knuckles on. Same as the bow, the knuckles were made of black metal. They felt cool against my skin. I accidentally clicked a button with a thumb on the metal and one inch purple energy spikes sprung from the knuckles. “Any way we can get matching knee spikes for these?” I asked.

“Put it on your suit form.” Strife asked. “You do hand to hand?”

“Been street fighting for four years,” I answered. “Why?”

That’s when a small amount of hell broke loose.

He surprised me. That _little shit,_ I was _so_  pissed about that. He swiped his leg at my knees, knocking me over away from the weapon racks since I wasn’t paying attention. I fell on my left side, growling as I caught myself with my hand and elbow. No, I didn’t hit my funny bone. Yes, I should’ve seen that coming. Yes, that move can work in real life if your knees aren’t locked. Pushing myself up, I threw a punch at Strife. He caught it, pulling me by my fist into some kind of formal dance position with one of his arms around my waist.

“Not enjoying the dance, princess? You said you did hand to hand,” Strife teased, twirling me around. I kicked him hard in the stomach, using that twirl to my advantage.

He fully expected me to go gooey eyed posh princess. We had a lot to learn about each other.

He groaned, clutching his stomach with one arm as he tried to block my hands with the other. I preyed on the fact that he was using only one arm, pushing him down to the ground and sitting on his back.

“Should ask a girl first if you _really_ want to tango, Strife,” I answered, smirking as I ruffled his black hair.

“Thought princesses liked being swept off their feet.”

“Maybe fairytale princesses, but I also double as a dragon. Much more my style.”


	7. Oya

"Am I interrupting something?"

Fury was not impressed that I was on her brother, though I think she was secretly amused for some reason or another. She was wearing her suit -- black metal, matte finish, incredibly practical (no boob or midriff windows, which y’know is slightly disappointing but also understandable). She held her helmet with all its maroon mane attached to it, her fingers curled around the hole that the head went through. She held out her right hand for someone to take.

Strife and I reached out for it at the same time, but I swatted his hand away with my other one. He grabbed my free hand, pulling me down next to him. Before this could escalate further, Fury grabbed the hand he wasn't holding and pulled me from his grip.

"Childish," she scolded.

"Fun," Strife corrected. I snorted, amused with his answer.

Fury shook her head, pulling me up. "Come with me. I’m going to help you suit up,” she replied, pulling me along like I was a soft child. I removed my hand from hers, but followed her anyway. She seemed to not care if we were holding hands or not.

We went through a door to another room. There was a rack, where I assumed was where they put their Horsemen suits (look I’m subbing in the names I know now, I don’t remember what I called them at the time. Maybe I was sarcastic and called them Un-Birthday suits, I don’t know it was months ago). The room was shaped like a Tetris piece. The one that looked like a lowercase t with the right “arm” cut off. The left arm was filled with small changing rooms. Fury walked right past those and kept going straight forward. That part of the room was filled with the blinking lights of technological do-dads. The only thing in that part of the room I knew the name of was the goddamn door (yes, specifically the _goddamn_ door. That’s the title, live with it).

"What now?" I asked, feeling pretty dumb just standing there outside the goddamn door.

"Go through that door and strip down."

"Excuse you?"

"Need accurate measurements for your suit. They're skintight," Fury replied. "Helps the machine figure out the weight of the armor padding if there's less...fluff and miscalculations."

"What sort of measuring are we doing?"

"Scans. Sort of echolocation gear. It sees where your body shifts its weight when you're standing and moving and plot out the suit to adjust for that," Fury explained. "Provide proper support for your body without feeling like it's strangling you."

"Fine," I replied. "Time to get naked then. Just..."

"Just what?" Fury asked.

"Don't ask about the scars," I answered, stepping through the _goddamn_ door. I took off the Distribution uniform I was still wearing, the grey cloth falling upon the black floor. I stood as the room grew dark.

"Stand still," Fury's voice ordered through the speakers. A low monotone humming started. In four minutes, it rotated from one side to the next -- from in front of me to the left to behind to the right to above and then finally below me. Then it all stopped.

Fury had me pull all sorts of shit in that room. Sprinting, punching, kicking, walking, aiming my bow, anything that could happen on the battlefield. It was a little boring, but I curbed my sass for the sake of getting the shit over with. The interesting stuff comes later after I had been clothed in training spandex before being tumbled out to the workout gym area.

Strife was there and clad in the training spandex. That confirmed that there was a loving deity, looking out for people with appreciation for posteriors. Out there, somewhere, that deity was looking out for me. That's all you're getting about how he looked in the training spandex. God knows I can't have that statement come back to bite me in the ass. Have to be careful with this information.

"Eve, do you want to tango?" he replied in a posh voice that seemed like an immature, mocking version of Samuel Prince's voice. The similarity was a bit striking.

I did a fake little bow, answering in a similar voice, "Let us tango, Mister Strife."

We both settled into fighting stances, each circling around each other. We broke out laughing after a while.

"It's a sparring match, not a cheesy action movie, what are we fucking doing, Strife?" I cackled at him, feeling a lot of the tension in my shoulders leave.

He snorted, snickering, "Being unprofessional teenagers. What else is new for me?"

"Yeah, I do that sort of shit too. Now, c'mon, come at me, bro." I curled my fingers of both hands inward, motioning him over. He sprang forward like a trigger had been pulled, aiming a feint with his left hand. I watched both hands, smirking as I blocked both. I pulled him forward, chests touching. I winked and kicked him back, following up my push with a punch. He caught my hand like he had known where it would be, winking as he pulled me down to the ground, chest flat to the ground. I growled as he pinned me, struggling in his hold.

"What's wrong, dragon lost her teeth?" he teased me.

"Please, taking a bite out of you would be unsanitary and it'd be too easy to get you in my mouth," I replied, a little too cheeky for the position he had me in. Don't you even make the joke -- I'll smack you.

Strife snorted, going to joke back at me, but was interrupted by War’s ever familiar voice.

You see, some people have a resting bitch face. War has one of those and a resting bitch voice. It’s a funny combination. “Are you two going to fight or are you two going to continue making sexual innuendos at each other?”

Strife and I looked at each other, both humming in consideration. “Both?” we suggested at the same time. He grinned wildly as I did and we both nodded. “Both.”

“First one to pin the other for ten seconds gets a twenty dollar bill,” Fury replied, reaching into one of the pouches on her suit and waving the green paper around.

I kicked Strife off, causing him to grunt. We met each other halfway, both trying to wrestle each other to the ground. He tried playing dirty (throwing a knee at my stomach, “accidentally” brushing something against my boobs), but it wasn’t working on me. When he tried to knee me in the stomach, I would block him with my own knee. I punched him hard in the stomach for every time he “accidentally” touched my boobs, which was three. One punch eventually made it past his blocks and knocked the wind out of him and I pinned him down, grin resurfacing again.

“One Mississippi,” I whispered. “Two Mississippi...”

“Princess, you really counting in Mississippis?” Strife grunted out. “Battleships are where it’s at.” He struggled against me, but I stopped that by putting more pressure on his hands and feet.

With a smirk, I swapped over to, “Battleship three, battleship four, battleship five, battleship six...”

“Always had a thing for blondes, you a bottle blonde?”

“Battleship seven, battleship eight,” I kept counting, shaking my head.

“Hurting my pride, princess, beating me so coldly.” Strife tried puppy dog eyes at me. I could feel him trying to move his hand out of my hold, so I quickly twined my fingers with his. His eyes widened at that, just a fraction.

“Battleship nine, battleship ten,” I finished, letting him go and getting up. I offered him a hand with a grin. “C’mon, baby, up and at’em,” I replied, wiggling my fingers at him. He snorted, taking my hand and getting up.

I walked over to Fury, who didn’t look amused in the slightest. “You know he held himself back in that, right?” she asked quietly as War seemed to be scolding Strife on the other side of the room.

“Definitely. He should’ve thrown me off when I got to two Mississippi. I’m smaller than him, both weight and height,” I replied. “Nah, he’s up to something. You wanna actually kick my ass? I want a fight where I can see what the hell I need to improve.”

Fury seemed to relax slightly. “Good, you’re not cocky,” she noted, putting the twenty back in her pouch.

“Just an asshole,” I remarked. “I try to be a smartass more though.”

Fury didn’t waste any time once we were in the ring. She didn’t even remove her fancy Horseman suit. She leapt at me. I ducked and dodged her leap -- for the most part, anyway. She caught the side of my shirt, pulling me back to her like I was her whip. She went to punch me at the bottom of my ribs, right where the celiac plexus is. I tried to block her, but all I ended up achieving was adding my own hand to her punch, knocking the wind out of me. Fury dropped me to the ground, letting me catch my breathe.

“Need to work on reaction speed,” she remarked, circling me.

“Good to know,” I wheezed.

“Do not let your guard down,” Fury scolded me, moving to try to grab me again. I weakly rolled out of her way, panting for breath. “Enemies aren’t-”

“Going...to let me...recover. I know,” I panted. “Come...at me.”

Fury’s lips quirked into a smirk and she swiftly stepped towards me. I scrambled on all fours, moving out of her way. She caught my leg, pulling me towards her. She pinned me to the floor, counting up to ten as I weakly struggled against her pin. She let me up, helping me up.

“Short break. You need to pick out some stuff for your suit,” Fury replied, pulling me along. I panted, doing my best to keep myself upright and not falling over. We walked back over to the room with the _goddamn_ door, opening another door to go into another room. Fury sat me down in a chair, grabbing herself her own chair as she clicked one of the computers on. The room had a series of computer screens over the walls, each connected to the big-ass computer in the center of the room.

“What do you want your suit to look like?”

“I get to pick? There’s not just...a standard suit?”

“No, considering there was only four of us, now five. It's not like they need to be mass produced. Each suit’s different. Yours, for example, I’m going to be putting in some speed enhancements for your problems with reaction time. And I'm going to make it so you can use your bow without it getting in the way. And we have to make you distinguishable from everything else,” Fury explained as she typed at the keyboard. A 3D model of a suit of my proportions came onto the screen. “Don’t want one of us accidentally hurting you in a fight.”

Finally catching my breath, I remarked, “That’d hurt like a bitch. What sort of shit do you need my input on?”

“Color, helmet design, and specifics you can think of.”

I leaned back in my chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Purple and grey for colors. I’ve got a picture for helmet design, if you’ll let me hop on the Internet. I want spikes put in the knee pads and the toes of my boots,” I replied. “Energy spikes, like the knuckles I picked out from the armory.”

“Use the screen in front of you, it’s hooked up,” Fury replied, typing away and making modifications to the armor. I tapped at the keyboard in front of me, pulling up a website I hadn’t been on in years.

When my mother died, her friends made a website for her memory. Pictures were put up, stories, anything and everything about my mother. My father wanted it taken down, but they refused since it’s what she told them to do in case she died. No idea why she told them to do it, part of me hopes it was for me, but how the hell would my mother know she was going to die giving birth to me? The dots aren’t making a picture I could understand when I connected those little shits.

My mother had been a nerd. A _huge_ nerd. She was a huge fan of a science fiction franchise that came out decades ago, a multi-media franchise that went by the name Star Wars. The franchise was still going a bit, but it definitely wasn’t the star that it had been in my mother’s time. My mother and her friends all sort of adopted one of the fictional cultures in the franchise, Mandalorians. Warrior race that lived to fight. My mother had a full set of armor -- my father probably got rid of it after she kicked the bucket kicking me out of her stomach.

I pulled up a picture of her wearing her armor. She had been decked in orange, green, and blue. Orange meant a lust for life, green meant duty, and blue meant reliability. The color meanings were specific in established Star Wars lore. Out of the two colors I picked out, only one had an established meaning.

Grey -- mourning the loss of a loved one.

Purple had a general fan accepted meaning -- luck. I’d need a lot of it in the time to come.

I saved a picture of my mom in her armor, cropping out the design of her helmet. I poked Fury in the shoulder, remarking, “Got a picture for my helmet design.”

“Good. Keep it up on the computer, go back to the training room. Ask War to spar with you. I need to see what else you need for your suit,” Fury remarked, typing away and clicking. I walked back to the training room, seeing Strife and Death going at it in a ring. Both were flexible, working around each other’s strikes like water rolling down a hill. Strife, though, looked ragged and tired. Death seemed to be winning.

War was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He was watching Death and Strife fight intently, studying almost. I cleared my throat and he looked over at me, raising an eyebrow.

“You wanna go? Get some revenge for me stepping into your fight?” I asked, a teasing tone fluttering into my voice.

He snorted, leaning off of the wall. “I don’t see why not.”


	8. What a Riot

“Had enough?” War asked me, watching me rise from the mat again.

With War, it was another ass whooping. Any time I threw a punch at him, he'd extend his arms on both sides of my punch. The hand closest to his face would move my punch off target, just over his shoulder, and the hand farthest from his face would latch onto my shoulder and throw me to the ground.

At the fifth time of me getting thrown to the floor, I changed strategies. I went attempt punching him again, but instead of simply deflecting my punch, he planted his foot on the side of my knee while putting my outstretched arm in his armpit. He then managed to put his hand, outstretched like he was playing paper in rock-paper-scissors, under my chin and knocking my head back. His other arm forced my body weight forward, folding me in half before sweeping one of his feet under my legs and forcing me onto my back.

The thing that made the fight different from his other siblings is that War fought quietly. No chatter like Strife and Fury. War fought like Death, silent. It wasn’t what I was used to and I wonder to this day if he knew that. I was used to banter, trash talking. War just grunted and grunted rarely.

“Okay...okay, I think...I think I’m good,” I panted.

War snorted, “You’re actually kind of terrible.”

“Thanks buddy. Fountain of compliments you are,” I snorted, slowly getting up. War grabbed my arm when I was half way up and kind of shook me like laundry, straightening me out, before putting me down.

Death had just beat Strife. I could see Death putting Strife in a headlock, Strife somehow bending backwards just enough to kick at Death’s arm around his neck lightly. Death’s expression was hardlines, he was definitely in frowny town with Strife smirking like he was winning.

“You’re going to have to wait a while until Strife is done with Death,” War replied. “Strife takes far too much amusement out of annoying him while sparring.”

“Guess it’s another win condition -- make the enemy rage-quit,” I said, shrugging.

“Go get water. You’ll need it for the bruising,” War snorted, getting his own bigass red water bottle and barely using it to hide a smug smirk. I lightly smacked his shoulder, unable to keep back a smirk myself as I went over to the water jug.

* * *

Strife eventually was beaten. Fury, War, and I were sitting up in the bleachers, Fury pointing out bits of their combat styles that she thought I should learn from and War sometimes pointing out mistakes in her logic (such as the fact that I’m not tall enough to grapple Strife like Death does or that I don’t have the muscle mass to shove into someone like Strife does). Death’s method of beating Strife, however was rather...unorthodox.

Death managed to get Strife to drop his guard down by tickling him.

My jaw dropped, but Fury and War didn’t seem too surprised.

“Wh-hahahaha-at the FUCK, DEATH?” Strife laughed and shrieked, hands automatically going down to stop his brother’s fingers. Death then pinned Strife down, counting in a slightly smug deadpan voice.

“One battleship, two battleship,” he counted as Strife struggled, all of Strife’s mirth gone in an instant as Death continued. “Three battleship, four battleship, five battleship, six battleship, seven battleship, eight battleship, nine battleship...”

Death moved his masked face closer to Strife’s, a smirk in his voice. “Ten battleship.” Death then neatly removed himself, dusting himself off. He then touched his ear, something shiny and silvery in his ear. He nodded, his stare turning to me as he seemed to be listening to something.

“Bain, come down here. I am to take your orientation from here,” Death said. I gave a short nod, getting up and sliding off of the bleachers. I got into a fighting stance and Death shook his head.

“I might actually kill you at this point if we spar,” Death replied. Said it as simply as a fact. “No, no, we are to get you your Horse. And a codename.”

“Oh...lead on then, boss leader,” I replied, shrugging.

Death walked on, expecting me to follow. Strife whistled at me from the floor as I walked past and I lightly kicked him in the shoulder. Death walked me through a variety of corridors and stairs.

“So...I don’t have any experience riding a horse,” I replied, trying to stop any problems before they happened.

Death snorted. “You’ll get used to it.”

“...any tips?”

Death then kept me entertained with tips about riding a horse, especially into battle. Horses don’t have very sharp turns, so don’t expect any. A horse isn’t a car and won’t do everything you say on command. By the way he spoke, Death seemed to have the opinion that horses were smarter than humans on some level. We finally reached the outside where we were in a very large open meadow. There was a stable attached to the building we just exited, Death leading the way that way. He had to take me by the hand and pull me since I was far too focused on what I saw in the distance.

Horses. Not the shit you’d see on like Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron or on the calendars you’d get when you were like five or six. These horses were shiny and it sure as hell wasn’t from sweat.

They were metallic horses.

Death talked to a middle aged looking man in a cowboy hat. The man was scruffy, looked like a cowboy from the old movies. Except he had a cybernetic arm for his left arm. It whirred as he and Death spoke, tools occasionally coming out to help the man clean under his nails as he spoke to Death.

“So, you’re the new Rider,” the man snapped me out of my staring contest with both the horses and the arm.

I sputtered then cleared my throat. “Yeah. Yeah I guess I am.”

“There’s no guessing. You are or you’re not. Go out with the horses -- see which one likes you.”

I gulped and nodded, slowly making my way out to the pen that surrounded the stables and the door entering the building. Every time I got too close to the horses, they’d walk off. It felt like middle school all over again. A few of the horses even snorted at me when I got too close, sounding suspiciously like pre-teen girls.

I eventually sat down and decided that if this was going to be some animal partnership mojo like in the movies, the damn horse would have to pick me and not me picking the horse. So it was time to wait.

And wait I did. Eventually I got bored of sitting there in silence, so I plucked a tune from memory and attempted singing.

“I don't know where you're going, but do you got room for one more troubled soul? I don't know where I'm going, but I don't think I'm coming home and I said...I'm too hot, hot damn. Called a police and a fireman. I'm too hot, hot damn. Make a dragon wanna retire, man. I'm too hot, hot damn. Say my name you know who I am. I'm too hot, hot damn. Am I bad 'bout that money? Break it dow-”

I was interrupted from my singing by something nudging the back of my head. I turned around and found a horse’s snout. I blinked and muttered, “That is some Disney bullshit right there.”

The horse snorted at me, laying its head on top of my head. “Okay, this is very touching, but get off me and lemme stand up.” The horse made some kind of a little shit snickering sound, shaking its head while putting pressure down on my head. “Haha, you’re an absolute **_riot_** , such a funny little shit,” I deadpanned, putting my hands up on the sides of the horse’s head. It let me move it off my head, finally letting me stand.

The horse was pure silver. Not made of silver, mind you, but the color was silver. Like all the other horses. However, from my hands, purple seemed to be bleeding into the metallic hide of the horse. I checked my hands and my hands weren’t wet with paint or anything. I touched the horse’s neck and a purple hand print was there for a few moments before the color started to spread, more and more.

“Huh...I guess you like me or some shit?” I asked, looking up at the horse. The horse’s eyes turned from the sky blue they were to a brown.

A brown that matched my own.

“Okay...I’m going to guess from the color changing that you do like me or you wouldn’t like...shift colors like some kind of living mood ring or something,” I replied. “Well I guess...we go back to the stable.” I slowly started to walk back to the stable, the horse following me and occasionally chewing on my shirt. I called out, “Death, I think this one likes me.”

Death turned around, looking surprised. “That was quiet,” he replied. “Usually there’s some kind of fight.”

“...I was about to ask why, but then I remembered who your siblings were,” I said.

The guy that Death was talking to stood up from his leaning position, looking over the horse. “Mmmmmm...Riot does seem to like you,” he replied.

“That’s its name? Riot?”

“That’s the one you chose, according to Riot,” the man stated, rustling where the horse’s mane should’ve been. Slowly, grey smoke rose from the horse’s neck, forming a kind of smokey mohawk for the horse’s mane.

Death pitched in, sounding amused, “And what does a Riot follow but a Craze?”

And Craze I was newly dubbed. I liked the name. Made me feel like...like home.


	9. A Blazing Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve's storytelling transitioning could use some work.

Now’s where it gets difficult to tell the story. Because a lot of it becomes training montages and we’re all out of ancient music to compliment them. Mostly because our speaker system in here is busted.

So let’s somewhat summarize things that are important before I move ahead to my first mission. Mostly because I’m feeling nostalgic and I’ve got a cheese-ball whirling up here.

The things I found to be important about the training montages weren’t the fighting techniques or the skill I worked to make with blood and tears and sweat. It was the people I was working with, the atmosphere that made it easy to forget I wanted to die on a near daily basis (it’s not something I like talking about, even now).

It was Fury’s gentle hands patching me up after she physically ripped me to shreds and her words as she verbally ripped me. Her honing and helpful harshness on my good days, her rare patience and prudence on some of my bad days.

She knew how I liked to be treated. There was teasing and concern, but she didn’t let our newly budding friendship put the kid gloves on instead of the brass knuckles she always treated me with. And that? That was -- you know, I just realized that train of thought was going nowhere _important_ , next train!

War’s duality was something that was easily distracting. He could be as jovial and teasing as Strife, but then shift into dark and silent as Death. His solution to all pains were one of two things: ice or macaroni and cheese with ketchup on it. It was common to see him crunching a bit of ice between his teeth when he was pissy or angsty, but it was rare to see him nursing a bowl of mac that was strangely a gradient of gold and red while making a beeline to his room. Anytime I got roughed up sparring with him (bruises, always bruises with War), he’d casually toss an ice pack at me and tell me to “rice” (Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate -- it’s an ancient semi-basic sports therapy). He was rough, but y’know, in that way that brothers always are.

Death was a mix bag. His training was less sparring and more horseback riding with targets. Riot was patient enough with me, though Death didn’t like that I let Riot choose the direction we went. It was sarcastic, rough training. It didn’t feel like I was getting any friendship points with Death, but then he’d surprise the fuck out of me by remembering the tiny shit I let loose out of my mouth: like how I liked beef over chicken for dinner or how I disliked fighting people smaller than me and then he’d make my targets smaller than me on purpose. He was a dickbag, but he was a dickbag who was rarely considerate with what I liked and preferred.

If anyone was the most distracting from my emotional turmoil, it was Strife. From hitting on me constantly to being eerily on point with me (like finding all my cubby holes I found for myself to calm my shit down on my bad days and being able to take my shit on bad days), Strife just...was my friend. Even in those beginning days, Strife just stepped into the role of being my friend as naturally as one breaths.

I was getting better at everything through training and determination, but I was still the baby of the group by far. I could only take down Strife half the time and that’s because Strife sometimes had it in him to let me win (every time he’d hit on me so, y’know, I think it was probably set up for him hitting on me). The others would disappear for missions, called away by the Council (the leaders I had still yet to meet). And I’d be left all alone.

Alone with no Fury, no War, no Death, no Strife...wow, that sounds really bad out of context. Um. You know I mean the people, not the actual concepts, it’s chill. Fuckit.  
I was still trying to get a read on...well, the whole Prince situation. Hell, even if they were running away out of brattish desires like Prince made it out to be, did I even have the right to take them back to him? This is the sort of shit I thought about as I sat alone in the middle of the training floor eating some of Strife’s “secret” icecream stash (I found it on my second day when I got lost trying to find the bathroom).

One day, y’know I broke into the most melancholic of ice cream flavors (Karamel Sutra -- usually the ultimate breakup ice cream because it’s salty like tears and sweet like memories) as I realized something.

I didn’t have the right to give Prince anything, despite his insistent text messages and ominous letters. His step kids were happy here, without him and without their mother. It was their lives, not mine or anything I had the right to control.

I decided I needed to leave a big enough message for Prince to understand. I went to the armory (leaving the half eaten bowl of Karamel Sutra on the floor) and took a big ass hammer from War’s wall. I smashed the phone he gave me, left the pieces, dropped the hammer, and grabbed a flamethrower from Strife’s wall. I left with Riot -- the Horsemaster had been asking me to take Riot out for exercise when I wasn’t training with Death and this counted, right? That’s what I told myself as I brought the flamethrower into my lap and steered Riot towards the house I had been living in for the last couple of weeks.

I left Riot outside, scouring the house for anything useful that wasn’t bugged in some fashion. I made a pile of clothes, some food objects, anything not electronic, outside with Riot.

Riot nickered at me, pawing the ground. “It’s okay, bud,” I said numbly. “Just doing some spring cleaning.” I ignored the loud neighing as I went back inside the house, turning on the flamethrower.

I torched the furniture and visualized the money amounts for each bit of it. It wouldn’t make a dent in Prince’s pocket, not with his digits, but the amount meant a lot to me. The street rat with an alcoholic father and a dead mother who was trying to keep a dying family together with what she could make, wherever she could make it, wasting and torching the furniture that probably cost four digits each for each piece.

I laughed in the middle of my pyre, laughing so hard that if I wasn’t already tearing up from the heat of it all I’d be tearing up from the laughter. I was not in a good state, as you guys can probably tell. I was consumed by guilt that I was backstabbing my friends, people I was only getting started in knowing, to their stepfather who was a clear as a crystal with how much of a shitbag he was.

I had only fed him new information: updated his descriptions of them for if I got caught, told him more about Wildeden itself. It wasn’t much, but the fact that I gave him something and that made me guilty.

I didn’t hear Riot cantering away over the sound of my own crying and the crackling of the flames. I didn’t hear or feel anything but the sensation of every little bit of self value I had slipped through my mind and soul like little grains of sand, lost in the fire crackling around me. To me, at that point in time, I was redeeming myself. As I closed my eyes, I felt like I was being slowly lifted up.

I opened my eyes again to see bright white and yellow.

* * *

 

I coughed as I sat up, only to have Death shove me down roughly back into the medical bed.

“Don’t.” He was sitting besides the bed in one of those wheely leather office chairs. “Don’t move. You’re lucky the Council has advanced medical technology, enough for your third degree burns to only be scars.”

“Don’t think lucky’s the right word, pal.” I coughed again, trying to keep my eyes open more than a squint.

Death sighed. “How long have you been suicidal?”

“Since I was old enough to understand my dad’s drunken yelling.” I blinked. “The fuck?”

“You’re being pumped with truth serum at the moment. The Council’s decision, given you’re obviously not mentally well enough to give truthful answers for your own good.” Death sighed and I think he ran a hand through his hair. I can’t remember if he had his mask on or off for the occasion. “Why did you burn down your own civilian house with you inside of it?”

Before I could filter myself, the words were already tumbling out. “I didn’t plan to be inside of it originally when I was burning it down. Originally it was meant to be a clear message to your stepfather, that he wasn’t going to get any more fucking information out of me about you or your siblings.”

The hand on my shoulder suddenly tightened its grip and the pressure sent me into a coughing fit.

“How...how is my stepfather involved in this?”

“In-in m-my fi-first suicide-” I couldn’t talk due to the coughing and Death’s hand left my shoulder. I recovered slowly, but the serum prompted me to keep talking. “I-in my ffffffffffffffirst suicide attempt, I w-was caugh-aught by the police. H-he ca-came to my ho-hospital room and g-gave me a chance n-not to go to a go-government run psychological camp for my mental illness. I too-took it before I kn-knew anything. Stupid, so _stupid_ , should just _di_ -”

“Stop. How much does he know?”

“Stopped sending him reports after I was recruited to being a Horseman. Updated appearance profiles and a general report on Wildeden based off of what I initially thought and saw.”

“So not much. Not enough to kill you for.”

“What-”

“But still enough to be punished.”

My eyes shot open and Death wasn’t in his chair. I started to panic and hyperventilate, but that just caused another coughing fit from the smoke damage in my lungs. I looked about the room, not seeing anyone around. I wondered briefly if that whole shit with Death was a dream (the truth serum bit seemed unreal), but then I fell from my bed in an attempt to see things in the room better and landed face first into the floor.

I struggled to get up, especially when I heard footsteps approaching me. There was a blinding pain in my right leg and I blacked out. It was that much pain.

All I could barely make out while I blacked out was yelling. A lot of yelling.


	10. A New Leg to Stand On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the War arc.

After that incident, I was out for four more days. Enough time for me to get this little gadget, the one that had your attention for so long. Guess with your height, only makes sense you guys would be focused on my leg.

Yeah, Death didn’t take my confession kindly, but at least all he took was my leg. From the hip down, my right leg had to be completely replaced with robotics. The medics were merciful enough to keep me under the whole time and to this day, I still don’t know if they chose to do that or if one of the Four ordered them to do that.

If the card and singular gift were any indication, I didn’t get much visitors while I was under and trapped in a bed. The card was a get well card, signed plainly by Fury, Strife, and War. The gift was a new phone, a slightly modified model of my old one that seemed to just...have more tech in it.

Once I was no longer kept asleep, I had one visitor.

War.

He walked into the room and sat besides my bed. He turned the chair around so he’d be sitting in it with his chest up against the back of the chair because that’s how he sat in chairs with backs in them. I’m convinced it’s some weird macho man thing where he’s trying to make the chair feel bad about itself since he has more muscle than a chair, which isn’t hard to do, but he’d never confirm it for me when I asked what the fuck was up with that.

“You’re awake, Craze.”

“No shit.”

We stared at each other until he gave a long sigh.

“It seems we now have more in common, Craze.”

“Really, I thought we were clones of each other, physically and spiritually. What are you doing with your-”

He pressed into his palm of his left hand and the whole arm up to his shoulder shimmered. Dark metal glimmered dimly under the medical bay’s lights, orange lights flowing through chinks in the metallic arm like lava flowing through rock.

“Are you going to be silent and listen to me now, Craze?” he asked, lightly waving his robot arm and wiggling his fingers. I didn’t respond, my eyes wide at the revelation of his prosthetic arm. “I will take your silence as a confirmation. We both have had limbs removed by Death. Both for the same reason: Samuel Prince. My stepfather and your ex-sponsor. You’re not going anywhere for a while and it is a Sunday, a day I usually have very little to do. You deserve explanations before you hate my brother.”

* * *

War began telling me of his family's history. Chunks of it, at any rate. I’m still missing pieces of it, which is why I'm swapping narration styles here since I don't know enough to keep to traditional storytelling styles of he-said-she-said.

It all starts when their father died. War doesn’t remember anything of their biological father since he died when War was only six weeks old. Their mother, a woman named Lilith, got married soon after the death of the father to Samuel Prince. All War remembers of the time to be yelling, mostly between Prince and Death.

When War was six years old, Death took his younger siblings and ran. War didn’t understand a lot of it at the time, but he can remember that Death always answered his question with the same answer.

* * *

" _Why did we leave home, brother?”_

_“For our own good.”_

* * *

They were drifters until War was thirteen, managing somehow to escape their stepfather’s reach for seven years. War grew up educated on street fighting, having to fend people off from his family’s little camps with his family from time to time.

They eventually made their way to Wildeden. Death had been tipped off that it was safe from their stepfather, for some reason Death hasn’t to this day elaborated on. Strife and Fury were happy to have some place to settle down for a couple years rather than a couple months.

Now War? War was angry. He had been seeing other kids growing up in a normal way the whole time they were out on the run. Kids with fathers and ice cream cones, playing with dogs in the parks, teaching them how to play baseball. War felt that his brother cheated him out of a childhood.

So War did what his street education taught him: he tried to get back at him.

War planned for a week. He admits he’s not good at planning much longer than that, he's a very action guy. He cleared Internet history as he researched and managed to get in contact with Prince. He got himself somewhere he knew he wouldn't be watched or listened in on.

Then...he called the offices of Samuel Prince.

* * *

_“Hello, this is Ms. Naamah Woodrow, secretary of Samuel Prince, CEO of Black Stone Enterprises. How may we be of assistance today?”_

_“...”_

_“Hello?”_

_“...my name is Wayne Prince. Connect me to my father.”_

* * *

 War was Samuel’s first spy. He gave him the base information that I was reading from the dossiers when I first got to Wildeden -- the spies after War wouldn’t get a lick of anything, considering they all ended up in various conditions of dead.

When Death found out, Death was furious. The whole family was, I mean War was the only one that didn’t fully understand why they left. Fury kept Strife from shooting out War’s kneecaps while Death took War out of the room.

Death sat him outside and explained. Death explained Prince’s alcoholism and the child abuse. The child abuse was mental and physical. Death said it wasn’t uncommon for him to return from a session with his tutors and find War at three years old, badly injured, covered in blood, and crying.

According to War, Death still isn’t sure if the blood was War’s blood or someone else’s. I’m not sure if War’s made that up for testosterone points or, because this world can be that twisted, if it’s true.

While War was absorbing this all, connecting this with foggy childhood memories and finding Death’s words to be true, Death had taken his arm.

* * *

 “He called it a reminder. A grim reminder of my 'tantrum'.” That’s the line he decided to finish the story with. War gave a grim smile. “A reminder of everything I had learned and everything that my stepfather would do to me himself.”

“...I’m sorry, this is all _very_ poetic, but isn’t the whole-” I motioned a chopping motion with my hand at my left shoulder. “-arm cutting off thing technically also child abuse? As in, the very thing Death said was why you guys were leaving Prince? Isn’t that Exhibit A of pot calling kettle black?”

“I don’t claim to understand Death-”

“You _cheeky_ motherfuckers, you guys picked names like that just to make statements like that that can be super weird out of context-”

“Let me finish, Craze. I do not claim to understand the entirety of my brother’s reasoning nor do I justify it.” He sighed. “Death is not completely...Death is not completely mentally stable. None of us are. Death takes what happened with our stepfather and mother very seriously. He does so because he loves my siblings and me, but that does not make the path he chose right...”

“...but I guess it makes it understandable.” I sighed. “Alright. So you’re saying I’m history repeating itself, with me in your boots. I get that much. But why tell me this?”

“So you trust me.”

“...I’m sorry, I thought I was the newbie ex-spy who recently just got outted into the no trust zone.”

War snorted, running his fleshy hand through his hair. It had been growing out since I had gotten there, to the point where he could now absentmindedly play with his ponytail whenever he was thinking about something. “So you trust me enough to take my advice. Craze...Eve, from what I have seen and heard, you are a good person.”

“Pretty sure you’ve heard my shower solos, War, I’m not that good.”

“Craze.” His voice lost all mirth, which was like...sitting around a campfire and the campfire suddenly going out in a burst of wind. Cold like a piece of metal in the morning dew, his voice was in one hundred percentile of seriousity. “Stop deflecting me with sarcasm. You need help.”

He paused, probably seeing my eyes tear up at that last line. War reached out with his metallic arm, touching the shin of my new leg. “The both of us **know** it. The truth is is that I like to think of myself as someone with honor. The situation you are facing, in the _state_ you are in, is _unfair_ : you were building what looked to be the first meaningful friendships you have ever had in your whole life and now those friendships are in danger. I know you are strong -- I have seen it. But right now, you are most likely going to have difficulty standing up for yourself. I like to stick up for those who can't do it for themselves.”

“...you’re a correct asshole.” I snorted, fluffing up my fohawk and letting out another snort. “So, did you purposefully plan on throwing my own words back at me or did that just happen?”

“Craze, what did I say about deflecting me with sarcasm.” War gave me a dry look.

I winked at him. “Who said that was deflection? You’re right. I’m a suicidal mess with guilt issues out the ass and y’know? I probably need psychological help. A lot of it. Being one of you guys...that’s helped me. A lot. Even when you’re being a smartass and whooping my ass on the training room floor, you’re all...you’re all really bad at the whole mysterious loner thing.”

“You’re one of us. We don’t need to be around you. Others? Yes. Mostly because we’ll probably be fighting them at some point in time. No personal attachments to people we will be turning into fertilizer. First rule of war.”

“Capital W in that or lowercase w?” I teased, smirking. War flicked my kneecap, rolling his eyes. “Look...just...let’s just take this whole...whatever mojo you have planned slowly.”

“First, we’ll work on your leg. You were always weak with your right leg anyway, you’re right handed, why do you lead with your left?”

“See under ‘Shut the’ in the file ‘fuck up’. Also rude, I'm ambidextrous. I just prefer my right usually with hands and left with feet.”

War snorted, rolling his eyes at my childish response in either annoyance or amusement. It was always hard to tell with War. Most people could say that they were physically trained for war and by war, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who can say it and mean a person.

A very grumpy person.


	11. Boom

More training montages, more swearing. Whenever War wasn’t out on a mission, he was pushing me more and more. He sheltered me in his room since I had nowhere else to stay, which was nice. His room was various shades of red, white, black, and gold. It was messy in a sort of neat way: piles on the floor, but the piles were sorted sort of deal. Apparently the area he was letting me sleep -- a big walk in closet that he only used like a fifth of -- was where he used to keep his horse.

“Wait, you’re _kidding_ ,” I had said. “Your horse is _big as fuck_. Like I’m pretty sure Ruin can pull a train on his own as a _light workout_.”

War had smirked and snorted. “Ruin grew with me,” he replied. “So when I was thirteen-”

“You were tiny? Tinier?” I had asked. “Like could I have put you in a purse and released you on people like a tiny yipping Kraken-chihuahua?” My daydreams of War as a chihuahua with tentacles and an octopus beak were broken when War threw a shoe at me in revenge. The topic was not poked at again, even if I did totally did dodge that shoe, stop laughing at me and put your shoes back on, those were hard to get.

I spent more time with War, less time with the others. War took over my horseback training, making me fight him. Oh, the first time I won a sparring match against War ever was during one of those sessions.

War’s horse, Ruin, is _huge_. It was like the Universe was trying to apologize to War for making him a volcano in a firecracker body, so they gave him Ruin to be the volcano for him. He looks and feels like he’s made of stone, with cracks of molten lava creaking out with every time his hooves hit the ground. He leaves smoking craters, small ones about the size of your head, maybe the diameter of my thigh, as hoof prints. I barely reach Ruin’s shoulder with the top of my fohawk and I’m about five foot seven, my fohawk maybe adding an inch or two. How War _managed_ to get up into the saddle was a mystery, but maybe it was just practice and not some sci-fi juju or whatever.

Point is that Riot is like a chi-ow! Riot is like a greyhound to Ruin’s Great Dane. But where Ruin has strength and endurance, Riot has speed and agility.

War dragged me out to a further patch of the grazing area, the “wild” horses avoiding us. We started out a bit away from each other, fully suited up. War nodded and then we began.

Ruin charged forward like a storm, War unsheathing his sword and holding it at the side like a promise. I watched, spellbound by the sheer beauty in that destructive force (like a train crash, like a rockslide, like a volcano erupting and being struck by lightning at the same time) for a moment before I charged Riot forward and drew my bow. I shot a few arrows at Ruin’s hooves, making them turn a bit so I could keep distance as I kept Riot running a steady circle around them. I took a deep breath, charging an arrow with a little something special (a little boom-boom -- I thought of the time Strife showed me one of his stashes of ice cream, something small) before launching it at War’s shoulder.

As I think I’ve mentioned once or twice before the story, the arrows were charged with emotion. Ironic given the whole Craze name. I am my own quiver -- weaponize every emotion (the stupid grin on my face when Fury said I was pretty, the surprise of Death listening to me, War showing me a sunset with an arm wrapped around my shoulders, the frustration of losing almost every sparring match). If there's anything y’all know about me by now, if by narration style alone or observation, it’s that I am a ball of emotion.  
In any case, I watched in sheer shock as the arrow managed to dislodge War from his seat, watching him fall from his high horse and roll backwards, him shoving his sword into the ground to slow his knock back. He looked at me, eyes as wide as mine probably were behind my helmet.

I didn’t think that memory had that much emotion in it at the time, but y’know. Being as alone as I’ve been before you guys, it’s one of those memories you look back on to realize that you’re not alone and you’ve never been that alone. I know, I know, back to action, but let me get a little nostalgic for a moment. I didn’t realize back then that falling’s something you can do without realizing it. Any of the big, flashier arrows you guys have seen me shoot? I’m sure one of you can do the math.

Then we both jumped when a loud laugh and a clapping started, turning to the source. Strife stood there in nothing but his white boxers and some kind of grey crop tank top with the biggest grin on his face. His abs should’ve been illegal. It was the first I’ve seen Strife since the whole second suicide attempt thing.

“Don’t look at me, CZ, _get ‘im_!” He laughed, clapping his knee. “Or at least move before Ruin steamrolls you, c’mon girl.”

I yelped, turning to see Ruin charging at me. I let Riot gallop us away, keeping myself in the saddle by squeezing with my thighs. A few more arrows -- pebbles compared to the boulder I shot at War -- to keep Ruin off and then a few more at War once he himself joined at the charge. Strife cheered me on and shouted advice (“SHIT ON HIS FACE” being the only said advice I can remember to this day). This game of keep away continued, with my horseback riding skills tested as Riot did horse-wheelies (front and back) to avoid having her legs slashed by War or smashed into by Ruin’s hooves. I was shooting like mad the whole time. War eventually backed off, whistling for Ruin to follow his lead. Ruin snorted (fire prickling with the big horse’s breath, lighting a small bit of grass on fire before Riot stomped out the small embers) and backed off. War looked between me and Strife, stroking Ruin’s long face. He snorted, walking off with Ruin as I dismounted. It was pretty normal for War to pull a Batman and mysteriously disappear with Ruin off somewhere, I stopped questioning his edgy behavior.

I took off my helmet and Riot immediately took advantage of it, settling her head on top of my fohawk. I snickered, trying to push her chin off of my head and Riot continued despite my protests.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I jumped, Riot moving away slightly in my surprise. I looked up and saw Strife grinning down at me, snickering himself. I grinned back, punching him in the shoulder and causing him to laugh harder.

“Oh, tough girl’s now coming for me, huh?” he laughed, messing up my hair even more.

I stuck out my tongue. “Damn straight. I kicked War’s ass, I’ll kick your ass -- I’ll kick _my own ass_!” His laughter was infectious as he laughed harder at my response, my snickers upgrading with his laughter. We laughed like that for a while. I couldn’t tell you why he was laughing in the first place -- maybe the idea of seeing his little brother getting hit by a rookie like me was hysterical to him. I was laughing out of shock and relief -- it was a mixbag of the two to see myself improving like that. And Strife’s laughter was just damn infectious, like his grins and smirks.

Looking back at the whole thing, it was easy to see that there was some kind of- fuck this is cliché, bare with me. It was a laughing teenage boy and girl with a sunset in the background, Hollywood was built on that shit. But I guess it was different since I was wearing more clothes than him (again: his abs should be illegal). But looking back, I realize that my...my crush on him was evolving. I mean...guess the easiest way for me to put this is that I was falling in love with him. I know! Groan, that’s how I felt when I figured it out!

But I didn’t know that at the time, sorry, this shit is all coming undone at the seams the further I get in. It’s because I’m getting more emotional about the whole thing, details are foggier the further we go on this little timeline.

 **Fuck**. Gimme a break, I need to sort this shit out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so starts a four chapter intermission, where I'll be swapping up narrators to our horsemen to show some details that Craze wouldn't have had access to.


End file.
